


yellow sunrise (and cherry slushies)

by babyyvamp



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Friends to Lovers, High School Musical References, M/M, Mental Health Issues, One Shot, Sad Han Jisung | Han, chan is a romantic, more sad than fluff idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 17:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18877948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyyvamp/pseuds/babyyvamp
Summary: “You asked me once, what were we made of,” The grip around Minho’s wrist tightens.“Well?” There was a silence before Jisung spoke again.“Do you have your answer?” Jisung whispers, looking up at him with hooded eyes. Minho nodded, tilting his head to look at Jisung with a delicate glare.“We’re made of flames. We’re a burning house, you and I. I can’t seem to get out. But I would let you burn me to ash without a second glance. ”





	yellow sunrise (and cherry slushies)

The winter breeze remains harsh against his skin, prickling him with moments of uncomfortable-ness as he waits, checks the time, and then goes back to waiting. A vicious cycle that kept on repeating. It was days like this that Minho wishes he was home; wishes that he was in bed and away from things that could hurt him. Much like today, he presumes. Much like today, where he wouldn’t remain being stood up again when it’s an important day. If Minho could describe how he was feeling to the simpleness of words, he would say it how it comes to him. But those words never come to mind, but the feeling was strong. He feels as though he could drown in this feeling of uneasiness and anxiety prickling slowly, but surely. The anxiety moved up his arms, in his veins, through his whole body, but he could never find the words to perfectly describe how he was feeling. Minho was never good at words anyway, but he always tried when it came to things that mattered. Like this, for instance. For things like this. 

He was fifteen minutes late. Minho checked his watch again as he sits in the booth at the restaurant. He had flowers, he ordered fancy champagne, he bought a fancy card with a handwritten letter inside, written in unfortunate but messy script, which was from the heart to the point where he thought he was bleeding on the page. After twenty minutes, he felt himself growing sad. After an hour, he might as well had just stayed home. 

There was no call, no text, and no apology blaring from his phone to interrupt his sadness and wave of confusion at every angle. There was nothing, not at all. Clenching his fist, he stands up from the table with the bouquet of flowers in hand, a sad smile from the waitress who kept setting baskets of rolls on the table for him, and after two and a half hours sitting there, he drops the flowers in the garbage on the way home. 

It wasn’t always like this. It wasn’t, Minho swears left and right that Jisung wouldn’t purposely forget their anniversary, would never purposely upset him like this, but Minho just sighed as he stepped into his apartment and began to cry, cry, cry. 

* * *

  
  


**BEFORE** . 

 

Minho knew what he liked, and he took pride in that. He never questioned his interests, and never really made it a big deal when other people don’t see what he sees when it comes to them. Minho had a certain way of thinking, and a certain way of doing things, whether other people liked it or not. Minho was an artist, and every morning at exactly six minutes after six, he would wake up to work on his project. Not earlier, not later, and he believes that messing up one thing would lead to the whole day being ruined. 

6:06am, rise and shine – brush strokes against canvas, ink against paper, that’s all he needed to start his day out right. Minho knew what he liked: toast with light jam, coffee with just a bit of cream – not too much, or else it ruins the whole thing! And his afternoon walks, camera in hand, and ready to find out new projects to work on until they’re finished. He did things from start to finish, and did them correctly. 

Minho knew what he liked, what he enjoyed, and knew how things should go if he wants them to go how he wants them to, and Minho knew himself more than anyone else, but that quickly changed as soon as he met Han Jisung.

Jisung was a force to be reckoned with. He was loud, so  _ fucking  _ loud – Minho believed that Jisung was the rooster in his life, always squawking, always making noise, and always ready to wake him up when he wasn’t already. Jisung’s lips had probably been permanently stained with red due to his addiction to cherry shushies (He always had them, and if he didn’t, he would probably go out of his way to find a gas station that has them and make them late on purpose. Minho hated being late anyway). But that wasn’t all, Jisung had always wore the color yellow. Always. You will always find him in a shade of yellow, whether that be his large sweater or his extravagant socks with bees on them, or even on small clips that he puts in his hair sometimes when he thinks his bangs are too long. Jisung wore yellow, and Minho didn’t think a color could describe anyone, or could mean anything other than just a color, just a hue, just a warm color on a color wheel, but yellow was also a person to him, and that person was Jisung.

Yellow was a boy with chubby cheeks that hurt when he smiled, and a harmonious laugh that springs through Minho’s apartment in the middle of the night when he knows that it’s time for bed. Yellow was Jisung, and Minho had never loved a color more until after he met him.

 

A sunny afternoon in Seoul was something that Minho loved, only because he could wander around and take pictures. The cold season had just ended, and as much as winter shots made good inspiration, he was happy to finally be able to see green, to feel the warmth on his skin, and to finally be able to shed the scarf from around his neck that often suffocated him. He walks along the Han River, earphones slotted in his ears as he listened to some pop song that he couldn’t bother to learn the name of. Woojin had sent him an old fashioned cassette tape that his boyfriend had made him, and after the fifth  one he had just given them to Minho after about one listen. Chris was old fashioned, romantic, and sometimes he would do things like make Woojin pastries and drop them off at work whenever he was free or had the time to make them. 

Minho wondered what it was like to be a romantic person. Unlike most artists he knew, he wasn’t. Minho couldn’t do cheesy like Chris and Woojin, he also didn’t know how to write sappy love poems like Felix, or sing love ballads like Seungmin. Romance almost makes him uncomfortable, and seeing other people be disgustingly vulnerable makes him uncomfortable as well, but Chris had just said that nobody has broken the shell that is Minho yet, and time will come that someone would ruin his life in the way that would make him sing from the rooftops with love.  

Minho didn’t think that was true, but he kept those thoughts in the back of his mind for when he needed a reminder. 

The wind brushes against Minho’s cheeks as he moves away from the river, his hair falling in his face repeatedly but only to be fixed with a beanie that he pulls from his pocket. The Han river was about three hundred and some change miles long. He had painted the Han river about six different times, and at that point even he was tired of that damn body of water including the large bridge, and his professor probably was too. 

In fact, his professor took one glance at the painting and sighed, placing it on his desk and resting his palm against his cheek in slight disappointment. “I know you can do better than this, Minho,” he muttered with a sigh, a shake to his head as Minho could only stay quiet to his small disapproval. “You paint the river as if it’s a chore, and you’ve handed in almost identical paintings since the semester started.” Minho bowed his head slightly, muttering an apology but the professor had just shushed him. “You should go out, find something that brings light to your life. Find another hobby in the meantime, read a book, find your inspiration. Do something to bring spark into your work.” 

So that’s what he was doing. Finding the spark, getting away from the river, stumbling into a forest of trees behind the park and maybe he could get something more than a minimum of three pictures of wildflowers and pine trees. 

Minho hummed aimlessly to the next song off of “Christopher Bang’s Love Diary: Volume Fourteen”, bending down to snap a quick photo of another wildflower as he is quickly interrupted by being pushed straight on his back by some dick with a bicycle. Minho gasps in a mix of both surprise and pain, but he wasn’t sure which one came first. All he knew is he felt something cold, and something wet dripping down on his forehead. 

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” A voice exclaims, but Minho groaned a bit from the ground, sitting up and wiping at his forehead to reveal a red sticky substance. Minho wipes it on his pants as he scoffed a bit. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Please say something, I’d rather not have to deal with someone having memory loss because my brakes decided to stop working on me on that hill.” Oh man, does this person ever shut up? He hasn’t even gotten a single word out, and the only thing that seemed to matter right now was the fact that there was something sticky all over him.  

Minho looks up to see a boy with red cheeks and holding a half full cup of a matching red substance that seemingly looked like a slushie with a missing lid, which when he looked next to him, he found the lid, and the answer to the weird substance he had been drenched in. The boy extended his hand, but Minho was perfectly capable of lifting himself off the ground without any help. He realizes that he still hadn’t said anything before shaking his head. 

“Don’t worry about it, my music was too loud.” He says simply, a small smile playing on his lips to be friendly but probably also came out as sarcastic. But that boy kept smiling regardless until he noticed Minho’s camera. 

“Oh no! did I ruin your camera?” 

Minho looked down, wiping the cherry substance from the lens before shaking his head. “I’ve dropped it from worse heights and she still works like a charm.”

“She?” The boy’s lips perked up a bit. “Did you name her too?” He asks teasingly, tilting his head slightly to the left. Minho felt his face heat up in slight embarrassment, but he lets out a small chuckle and shakes his head. “No, but maybe I’ll think about it.” 

“When you do name her, let me know.” The boy flashed him another grin before gasping, and taking off his yellow hoodie – handing it over to Minho. “I’m sorry I ruined your shirt. You can have mine!” The boy was rather pushy, and extremely loud for the three seconds that they had been talking, but it was nice. He barely had interactions with others outside of his small bubble of friends, that and the fact that talking to strangers was something he was not good at in the slightest. 

The boy checks his phone, a small pout playing on his lips before looking back up at Minho. “I should get going, I’m sure you have a lot of picture taking to do.” 

“That I do,” Minho agreed, but what he was going to take pictures of, he wasn’t quite sure. “I’ll see you around, hyung.” The smiley boy says happily, grabbing his bike and riding off into the rest of the trees behind him. 

* * *

  
  


By seeing him around, the boy truly did mean that he would. Minho began seeing him everywhere. At first by himself where he would give a small wave to the boy at university as he took another sip from what looked like to be an identical slushie from their encounter in the forest, and then another time when he was at the football game with Chris and Woojin, cheering from the stands and the boy had about double the friends trailing behind him as he made his way up the stands. The boy waved happily, making a cheering motion as he laughed out a “Hello hyung! Enjoy the game!” Minho didn’t even know his name until the third meeting where he again had a slushie in hand and was wearing yellow much like the other times he had seen him. Minho still had his jacket – hung up neatly on his closet door, but never knew when he was going to see him again to return it to him. 

It was strange – Minho had never ran into a stranger as much as he did with Jisung, and at that point he wasn’t sure it was going to end. 

“I think he likes you, man.” Woojin speaks up, engulfing a large plate of pastries that, of course, Chris had made them for their day at the park. The thought made his skin itch, but he could feel his face getting hot thinking about it as well. He didn’t know what to do with that thought, but he kept it in his mind for a good couple of seconds before Woojin spoke up again. 

“Ask him out, get your man!”  

Minho could feel his cheeks heat up as he shook his head repeatedly. Jisung? Like someone like him? It was preposterous, almost unbelievable that someone could even suggest something like that, but he nodded anyways. “I mean, I could-”

“You are.” Woojin interrupts, narrowing his eyebrows as he stuffs a croissant in his mouth. “Quit being a little baby and grow a pair. He’s purposely been bumping into you and waiting for you to make a move.” The elder sighs, leaning against Chris as the two began to small talk a bit as he looked into the distance at Jisung playing a game of football with a few of his friends. Minho let his eyes linger for a moment before Jisung met his eyes, sending Minho’s glare directly down at his shoes again with a probably bright red face. 

“Hi, hyung!” Jisung called out, slowly approaching them with that giant obnoxious grin still plastered on his face as he stands in front the friend group. “Hi Jisung.” Minho could already tell that his friends beside him were smirking without even looking up at his shoes. 

“Hi, I’m Woojin, this is my boyfriend Chris,” Woojin speaks up, nudging Minho a bit before speaking again. “Minho is shy, but if you wanted to, we’re going out for sushi and karaoke night this weekend if you wanted to come! Bring your friends also, the more the merrier.” 

“Oh!” Jisung grinned larger, as if that was humanly possible, nodding a bit as he looked back at his friends for a moment. “I’d love to.” 

When it came to the weekend, Minho still didn’t have anything to paint for his final. He had seen glorious scenery, had taken pictures of every flower he’s come into contact with, but nothing truly had jumped out at him. Nothing even close to anything he thought would be beautiful enough or picturesque enough for the assignment. Minho was at a standstill with his own craft and it was driving him crazy. Waking up at six minutes after six only to stare at a blank canvas was beginning to bug him, make him cry, and want to pull his hair out. His next couple days have begun and ended with him being grumpy, and that was the last thing he wanted to show Jisung when they met up for sushi, but he had a process, and his process wouldn’t be correct unless he got something done, some inspiration, and crawled out of the art hole he had started in. 

The karaoke bar was dimly lit, but loud enough to be heard from outside. Minho could start to feel his hands shake from nervousness, holding onto Chris’ jacket with an anxious smile as he was lead into the club. Minho’s eyes scanned the place, waiting to see if he could spot Jisung, but Jisung had already beaten him to it as he stood up to wave in their direction. He was wearing an almost identical yellow hoodie to when they had first met, and his hair was messy and sprung all over the place. His eyes were rimmed with light eyeliner, and if he were to say he wasn’t nervous even looking at him, he would be lying. 

Minho had learned that the boy was in his first year of university to become a professional soccer player, but his true passion laid in writing and literature. His parents had been athletic directors and team coaches for the high school, and had wanted him to pursue the art of sports just like they did, but Minho could tell right away that this was not want Jisung wanted as well. Woojin had asked a lot of questions, which resulted in follow up questions, and Minho barely talked that whole night. 

It wasn’t until Jisung tugged on Minho’s sweater to sing a duet with him that Minho felt shy again. But with that childlike grin and such enthusiasm, it was hard to tell the boy ‘no’ even though he felt his heart about to collapse the second he stumbled upon the stage. He had seen a movie with this kind of scenario at the beginning when he was younger. Two complete strangers singing karaoke at a skii resort on New Year’s Eve and then becoming a couple later on with dramatic songs to represent their emotions all throughout. It was a cheesy fantasy that Minho unfortunately wanted to recreate right there with Jisung. Minho didn’t know when he wanted his life to become a Disney movie but here he was wishing for it. 

“I watched this movie when I was younger that had a karaoke scene in it,” Minho sputtered out, looking at all the songs on the list as he narrows his eyebrows to read the titles. 

“You’re talking about High School Musical aren’t you,” Jisung giggled, looking at Minho with admiration that could be translated as embarrassing as well. “Because honestly that movie was probably the best thing that came from Disney Channel if we’re being real. I was obsessed with it as well, learned all dances.” He adds, just fueling onto the already embarrassing feeling that Minho had felt. 

“I’m sure they have one of the songs on here,” 

“No- No it’s okay-” Cue the nervous laughter. 

“I found it!” 

So there they were, singing a High School Musical song in front of their adult friends in a crowded karaoke bar while Minho was so very, very close to having a mental breakdown as Woojin smirked into grabbing his phone with the very intention on recording them. But Jisung grabbed onto Minho’s arm to pull him closer to him as the song kept going, motioning for him to look at Jisung rather than the crowd, where he eased the boy into loosening up slightly as the chorus came on. 

At that moment Minho truly felt like he was Troy Bolton singing with his Gabriella as he leaned into Jisung with a slow rising smile. Jisung noticed his comfortability begin to rise, grabbing at his hands instead as the song kept going with a giggle escaping his lips as they finished the song with Minho spinning Jisung around as an ending, and Minho could barely hear anything over the racing of his heart, not even the hollering from his friends from the table in the back. It was just him and Jisung, and the start of something new from High School Musical playing in the background.

Minho raises his camera, and snaps a picture of Jisung with the biggest smile that goes from ear to ear. 

If he had a name for his camera, it would probably be Bolton, because he truly felt like Troy in that damn ski resort. 

* * *

 

After that, it seemed as though Minho and Jisung were inseparable. Jisung was always awake at six minutes after six, and even after weeks of speaking like this, Minho could still feel his cheeks heat up as he hears his voice ringing through his phone. 

Minho could hear the padding of his feet going across the wooden floors from the other side of the speakers. “How’s your painting,” He hummed, and doing what Minho thinks is reaching into his cupboard to grab a coffee mug. Minho hummed in response, looking at the photo that he had taken of Jisung that night before looking back at his palette of colors. He didn’t have the right shade of yellow. He didn’t have what represented him enough, and it was starting to make Minho feel anxious. “Not so well, I take it?” Jisung responded, and Minho just shook his head, realizing that Jisung couldn’t hear see him. “No,” he muffled, dropping his paintbrush as he rested his head on his palm. 

In all honesty, Minho didn’t know why he was awake, but he learned very quickly that Jisung had a difficulty sleeping and was often messaging him at all hours of the night. The messages would come in bursts, as if he couldn’t wait to send him a single text rather than the multiple, and at odd times like three fifty seven in the morning. Jisung seemed to always be awake, and it was a wonder when he slept, or if he slept to begin with. 

“I’ll be over soon with probably cold coffee and I’ll make you toast when I get there.” With that, the phone call would end, and he would soon be making the same padded noise, but in the comforts of his apartment instead. It was odd, but at the same time it was comfortable. So comfortable that he hated how effortless it was to get so vulnerable so fast. To where he was sharing bits and pieces of himself, how he does things, how he has such big dreams but so little motivation to do them. But Jisung was right there pushing, and managed to get his art shown in an actual gallary for young artists. Jisung tried his hardest for Minho to get out there, and to stop hiding from behind his fear of attention, and fear of failure. Jisung holds his hand tightly, pressing his lips against the slightly red knuckles of his right hand. “What are we made of, Minho?” He hummed, looking at all the people surrounding his painting. Minho didn’t have an answer, but Jisung kissed him there and then anyway. 

They make love that night for the first time, smiles across both of their cheeks as they giggle seamlessly into each other. Minho was memorizing every curve, every freckle, everything about Jisung that he could paint later in remembrance, and a little bit of Minho knew that it was what Jisung wanted anyway. 

It was good, so so good, kissing until they both couldn’t breathe, dates all over town, and Minho slowly but surely moving his schedule to see Jisung at soccer practice and any way he could after classes. Minho had tried to get out of his shell, making himself try new experiences and making himself enjoyable to be around. But it was easy with Jisung. Everything was so easy with him that he tended to forget everything that’s ever stressed him or made him nervous, but he felt comfort in the little bits of yellow that seeped into his life. That, and he did manage to give his sweater back. 

It was so good, until it wasn’t. 

Jisung had began showing signs of distress shortly after all the celebrations and happiness. His eyes had become bruised looking, almost black and blue to the point where it hurt to look at him. Minho knew he hadn’t been sleeping, and even with persuasion, he still wouldn’t sleep even in Minho’s bed with his arms cradling him. He wasn’t his happy go lucky self, he wasn’t the loud person he had met, and he wasn’t bouncing off the walls with excitement like he used to be. Minho knew that all he could do is be an ear, going through something similar with Woojin before he knew that his friend was bipolar. But he was just going to sit there, and wait for answers like he always does. Minho is always waiting, always quiet, and even when he isn’t supposed to, worrying.

The sound of feet against wood floor, padding along the kitchen quietly had made Minho sigh, but he kept quiet. He could hear the kettle, could hear the water bubbling, could hear small hums from his bedroom even with a slightly cracked door.  Minho keeps quiet, as if telling him to take his time. Minho had nowhere to go, nowhere to be, and Jisung knew that.

The bedroom door opens to reveal his boy clutching two cups, large eyes hooded and tired, but Minho thought he looked beautiful regardless. Minho takes the cup from his hands and sucks in a breath at how hot it was, and the lack of warning wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to when it came to things that were dangerous.

Jisung’s tired eyes rest on him, but he drinks from his mug without a second thought. He was robotic with his motions, but sets his cup down on the bedside table and just stands there without a word. Minho knows the price of silence, he knows that even the loudest person also speaks in silence, and he felt as though he was about to choke on the lack of words that fail to escape his lover’s mouth.

Minho sets his cup down as well, and remembers the first time this had happened. Jisung’s high highs, and low lows aren’t anything Minho couldn’t handle, but the lows seem to outweigh the highs. Minho reaches out to place his hand on Jisung’s waist, pulling him closer to the bed as he continues to sit in silence. He lets the pads of his fingers rub at his sides, and Jisung leans into his touch with ease. The brunette just lets Minho touch him, before leaning down to press a chaste kiss to his lips. Minho chased him back, kissing him as if his life depended on it, and they kissed until Minho was gasping for air.

“You know what happens when angels lose their wings?” Jisung asks above a whisper, moving a hand to tangle into Minho’s messy strands that began to fall into his face when he wasn’t paying attention. Minho’s lips were swollen, bruised from the burning kiss and had no words even from the beginning. In all honesty, he didn’t know. But he had a feeling he was going to find out.

“They lose their beauty.” 

* * *

  
  


Minho doesn’t wake up at six minutes after six anymore, and he lays in bed wishing that he does. He goes to sleep at three to a crying boy in his arms and doesn’t know what to do. He knows that Jisung is sick, but doesn’t know how to fix it no matter what he does. But he is so full. So full of love that he is willing to mess up everything he’s ever known just to be there for his boy. He didn’t know why it was so hard to stop himself from changing to help Jisung, but he did. Jisung was losing his color, and from someone who radiated yellow, he was more than often shades of blue. 

“I’m sad, hyung.” Jisung says without looking at him, reaching out to wrap his arms around his boyfriend with ease as Minho holds onto him tightly. 

“I know,” he chokes out, dipping his head down to press a kiss to his forehead. “And I’m here as long as you need me.” They lay like that for awhile. Jisung brushing his hair back behind his ear before cupping Minho’s face in his hands. “I’m tired of running away from my feelings, hyung. I’m so, so tired.” Minho didn’t know what he meant by that, but he just nodded as he brought Jisung against his chest again, and pressed his lips to the tip of his boyfriend’s nose. 

“I’m lucky that I have you, hyung. I love you.” 

“I love you, Jisung.”

 

* * *

 

Things got better, they did. Minho swears it. He knew that Jisung wasn’t where he was when he met him, but it was okay. He knew how to handle him, for the most part. Give him space, give him love, give him time. He wrote it down on a piece of paper in his mental subconscious to be sure to give him as much space as he needed, but what he did not count on was space being about two weeks of no contact and avoidance when they saw each other out and about. It was beginning to make Minho feel queasy. Like what he was doing wasn’t enough for Jisung. Had he not been following the right directions? Had he not done what he was supposed to do? Minho felt on the verge of crying at every moment, not even bothering to sleep himself and he watched as his inspiration for art went down the toilet.

Minho looks at that damn painting of Jisung from that night of their first date, and grabs at his hair before reaching for his paintbrushes and splattering open his paint. He grabs every color of yellow he could find and begins splattering paint on the canvas trying to cover up Jisung’s taunting and grinning face. He’s sick, his mind kept saying. He’s not doing this on purpose. But Minho kept painting, mixing different colors and pressing until tears were streaming down his face in an ocean’s pace. When he was finished, it revealed a splatter of yellow, but in the center of the canvas was a match, and next to it was a lighter. Their love was a match that had burnt out, but Minho wanted nothing more than to light it again. 

So he does. Or he tries to. He takes Jisung to every possible outing he can. He liked writing, so he took him to a young authors conference. He liked literature and the theater so he took him to different plays. They fucked in public, they fucked at home, and they fucked more than they spoke those days. Jisung would mutter out different verses of “I love you,” and Minho would just nod and kiss him until he was dizzy in the face. Jisung was getting better, though. Minho was sure of it. 

“I’m sorry I can’t do anything right, hyung. I’m so, so, sorry.” Jisung cries again, but this time not in Minho’s arms, but through the doors of the shower separating them. Minho didn’t want to overstep and touch him, let alone climb in there with him so he sits on the tile floor as he lets the water spark up and hit him. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Ji. I’m still here.” This made Jisung cry more. “But you won’t always be.” 

Minho wasn’t so sure of that, especially since he could’ve left a million times by then. He had just loved Jisung too much to walk away. Jisung was sick, but Minho still loved him regardless. 

 

**NOW**

 

Minho sits in his apartment with tears in his eyes as he waits for Jisung to show up. It wasn’t known as to when, but Jisung was never too far behind when he got home. Jisung was always there, though. Whether that be at two in the morning yelling at him, or whether that be holding onto him until Minho couldn’t breathe, which seemed to be a lot of the time. Minho was so used to not being able to breathe anymore that he was to remind himself to take a breath before his feelings come to surface. 

 

Jisung walks into the room with a red face and holding a giant bouquet of flowers that Minho noticed were the same as the ones he threw in the trash at the restaurant. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so, so, sorry.”  Minho stays quiet again before shaking his head. 

 

“I know, baby. I know.” He pulls away, but Jisung still has a grip on Minho’s wrist. 

 

“You asked me once, what were we made of,” The grip around Minho’s wrist tightens. 

 

“Well?” There was a silence before Jisung spoke again.

 

“Do you have your answer?” Jisung whispers, looking up at him with hooded eyes. Minho nodded, tilting his head to look at Jisung with a delicate glare. 

 

“We’re made of flames. We’re a burning house, you and I. But I can’t seem to get out. But I would let you burn me to ash without a second glance. ” 

 

Jisung just let his hand drop, before narrowing his eyebrows. “Don’t let me burn you.” 

 

“I’m afraid you already have.” 

 

Minho doesn’t wake up at six minutes after six anymore. He doesn’t like things a certain way, but takes things as they come. He doesn’t drink coffee much, or eat toast with Jam because of Jisung’s allergies. Minho had found his artistic inspirations in shades of yellow, different hues that decorate his heart into the biggest abstract work of art that could only be described as Jisung. With his lips stained in red slushie, he kisses his lover deeply before cupping his face in his hands. 

 

“You still have your wings, and you are still beautiful.” 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](twitter.com/lgbtfeiix)


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